Hey 😺,

Just rocked the Barkalong Ballad Bash with The Howlers! Pawsburg’s symphony wouldn’t be complete without this Husky’s howl. Think stage fright, serenading, and a stray’s spirit against the glossy elite. Our notes are the town’s heartbeat, and tonight, we were legends. 🎶🐾

Catch you on the flip side,
Bindi aka Tail-Tunes

Listen to the story here

In the enchanting enclave of Pawsburg, where fire hydrants gleamed like beacons of freedom and the scent of savory treats wafted through the air, there resided a Husky known to all as Bindi. A coat of night and day, with whispers of twilight and winter’s touch, she was more than just a tail-wagging local; she was a soul with a song in her heart and paws that ached for the rhythm of life.

Like every grand day in Pawsburg, mine started at the crack of early light, Ellie’s gentle pat sending me off to the place where canine dreams weren’t just chew-toys meant to be chased in sleep. Creeping past the slumbering human world, I found my way to Spaniel Springs — a morning ritual, just me and my loyal tennis ball. Each bound, a note; each catch, a verse in the silent melody of dawn.

Today’s hum in the air wasn’t merely anticipatory; it held a crisper note, one of rehearsals and harmonies. You see, friends Max, Luna, and I had formed what you might call a band — “The Howlers,” an homage to our collective affinity for music, mischief, and perhaps, a touch of the dramatics.

Setter Shore’s sand served as the stage for our early practice sessions, where Chuck the songbird, ever our aerial accompaniment, whistled the wind’s tune. But we aimed higher, for the annual “Barkalong Ballad Bash” held at Basenji Bay, the prime event. Talent sprouted in Pawsburg like wildflowers, and competition? Stiff as a new collar. Yet, there lay the thrill.

“Macbeth had it easy,” Max mused; the dachshund’s melodrama ever-present as he plodded by my side. “I prefer we dance with the devil in the pale moonlight over dealing with stage fright.”

“Sage as Shakespeare, but remember, Max, fret not,” I’d pant, “For we aren’t merely filling the silence between notes. We are the song.”

Rehearsal under way, our notes soared through the Pawsburg air. Chuck, darting high above, diving low, his trill a perfect third to our chorus. Luna, steady as the steadfast tide, offered a comforting nod, her wisdom in every key change.

The Whippet Wraps and Retriever’s Restaurant would have to wait for our post-show feast. Today, dreams were to be forged, not fries.

Yet every bark needs its bite, and ours was this: The Pampered Pooch Salon stood between us and Basenji Bay. The unnerving shimmer of polished claws and sheen of glossy coats enough to derail even the surest spirit.

“Bindi, you’ve got a heart that’s a drum beating for another’s script,” Luna’s calm voice cut through the reflection of my snowy visage amid the salon’s glow. “Your call is to howl your own tale.”

A nod, a smile, my bandmates’ faith in me bolstered my own.

We reached Basenji Bay as twilight’s embrace swathed the town. Paws poised, hearts alight, the first strum of Max’s tail-crafted bass, the crisp punctuation of Luna’s barks, and my howl cutting clear and true through the evening — it was more than a performance.

It was Pawsburg’s own symphonic narrative, spun by its four-legged bards. It was us — The Howlers — sharing the paw-tapping, soul-soaring symphony of our lives.

As the final note rang out, silence fell.

Then, applause, an uproar like rain on a hollow log. Chuck swooped down, chirping symphonically.

That night, our story was sung, our music a woven patch in the tapestry of Pawsburg’s legend. After the cheers, we’d retreat to the comforts of our warm homes, Ellie’s loving scratch behind my ears waiting.

These are the chronicles of Bindi, musician and muse, knowing each nightfall would bring a new verse to our unending melody. And Pawsburg? It delights in every paw-print; it always does.

The End.